“Yes.”
“The man my nephew said befriended him, but that everyone said was impossible that they even knew each other?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God…” She sank into her chair. “Johnnie was telling the truth. He didn’t do it. This proves it.”
“No, but it goes a long way in validating his story. It does not mean he didn’t kill him.” Jazmine started to protest, and Sydney said, “I’m not saying he did. Just what we can or can’t prove. And just because my father knew Johnnie Wheeler’s father, that does not mean that Johnnie didn’t kill him. But that’s not what I’m worried about,” Sydney continued. “My father lost two fingers in an explosion around the same time Johnnie’s father was killed. My father was also allegedly a contract employee for the army, but his story was that he took photographs for recruitment posters and pamphlets.”
“Then why wouldn’t your father have told Johnnie that they knew each other?”
“Maybe because of what they really did for the army. A friend of mine saw this photo and suggested that the men in it were obviously Delta Force, an elite group of highly trained special operators. It’s been suggested to me that they were working some sort of black ops assignments.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that whatever they were assigned to, especially if it was dealing with anything associated with national security, the government denies their involvement or association, and they could not discuss it with anyone outside of their unit. Period. And that would include the sons and daughters of former members.”
“Then what good does any of this do for Johnnie if you can’t prove it? They’re going to execute him on Tuesday.” She brought her hand up to her mouth as the reality of it all hit her. “My God. That’s in two days…”
“It gives us a starting point. Just yesterday I had no idea that my father knew Johnnie Wheeler’s father, or that they might have worked together. Now that I do, I have a whole new direction to look in.” And not much time to find the answers, she reminded herself.
Sydney returned her photo to the folder, then wrote her cell phone number on one of her business cards, telling Jazmine to call day or night if she thought of anything. As she started out the door, she remembered the suicide note, the nicknames used within it, and she asked, “Do you have any idea if Johnnie’s father went by any nicknames? Heard any of his friends call him anything different by chance?”
“Well, Frank was sort of a shortened version of his name. Does that count?”
“Short for what?”
“Francisco. He hated that name.”
40
“It’s not the boat,” she told Carillo after she left Jazmine Wheeler’s office. “It was never about the boat.”
He pushed open the door, held it for her. “I thought we’d determined that when we were at Becky Lynn’s and she blew us off.”
“But we didn’t determine why.”
“And you’re going to tell me, when?”
She merely smiled.
“You know that whole anticipation thing, Pollyanna? It only works for sex.”
“Frank is really Francisco.”
Carillo stopped midstep. “You’re telling me that the Cisco
Kid referenced in the notes is Johnnie Wheeler?” “Has to be. And it makes perfect sense. Francisco’s of ficial story was that he was a contract electrician for the army. Jazmine Wheeler thinks that unofficially he was doing something more, since they sent him all over the world. And get this, he was killed in an explosion right around the same time my father lost a couple fingers in an explosion.” “There’s a coincidence that would be hard to explain,” he said, pausing to answer his cell phone. He mouthed, “Lettie,” listened for a bit more, then said, “Yeah. We’re on our way. Just stopped off to get something to eat.” He disconnected, said, “Lettie says that Dixon’s looking for us.” “Us? I’m not even here.”
“If I had to hazard a guess, your babysitters snitched you off.”
“Great.”
“Don’t stress,” he said, as they walked out the door and to their car. “That’s why I picked up the extra nachos. Bribe the boss.”
“What are they? Gold-plated?”
“Just soggy from sitting in the car for the last twenty minutes. So tell me what else she told you.”
Sydney related the rest of her conversation with Jazmine as they drove back.
“So, what you’re saying,” he said, as he parked in the front of the federal building, placed his placard in the window that would ensure the parking vultures left his car alone, “is that all these guys were working an operation together, some black ops thing, and Wheeler’s father gets killed, your father’s hurt, forced to quit, and that’s where this all begins?” “It has to be. Orozco said they tried to kill him in the past. Maybe they missed and killed Wheeler’s father by mistake. More importantly, Orozco said my father believed the explosion was no accident, and he blamed McKnight.” “And this church connection is how your father found Wheeler?”
“My father didn’t attend church. I’m guessing he made up that whole connection, because it seemed believable, and would completely eliminate any mention of just how and why he sought out Wheeler, and why he contacted the others for money for Cisco’s Kid, AKA Francisco’s kid, Johnnie Wheeler.”
“Which means it could’ve been blackmail?”
“Or just the prodding of someone’s conscience.” “In some circles, that means the same thing.” Their surveillance team pulled into a space behind them, but didn’t follow them up, no doubt figuring that in the confines of the federal building, little could happen. Sydney, however, couldn’t help but recall the face of the man from the elevator, especially when they got on, rode it up to the Bureau office. She wasn’t about to let down her guard, even in the relative safety of the building.
They headed straight to Dixon’s office, neither of them expecting to see SAC Terrence Sheffield in with him. Sheffield was taller than Dixon by a couple of inches, and older by at least a decade. His lined face was permanently etched with that better-not-find-out-you’re-doing-something-you’re-notsupposed -to-be-doing look, which was mirrored by Dixon’s less permanent don’t-drag-me-into-what-you-were-doingor-there’ll-be-hell-to-pay look. Choosing between the two,
Sydney would have to say Dixon was the one they wanted to placate, but she wasn’t sure just how, especially when
Schermer walked up, saw them, said, “I got that info on
BIC-”
“Later,” Carillo said, holding up the Taco Bell bag with what seemed more confidence than Sydney felt. “Got your lunch, boss,” he said to Dixon. Schermer backed off, apparently reading the tension.
Dixon, who hadn’t ordered lunch, said nothing. SAC Sheffield asked, “What took you so long?”
“Traffic,” Carillo said, at the precise same time Sydney said, “Long lines.”
Sheffield narrowed his gaze at them. “There’s a Taco Bell five minutes from here. How much traffic can there be?” Carillo handed the lunch bag to Dixon. “They shred their cheese funny. This Taco Bell is best.”
Dixon took the bag, eyed Sydney, no doubt seeing the dust and cobwebs on her clothes, and said, “I need you both in my office now.”
Carillo was smart enough to realize when it was time to quit, and they followed him and SAC Sheffield back to
Dixon’s office. Dixon closed the door behind them, and she thought, This can’t be good, he knows we were at the methadone clinic, especially after the look he gave her as he set his Taco Bell bag onto his desk, and said, “We have some problems, Fitzpatrick.”
Sheffield’s phone rang, and he told Dixon, “You haven’t eaten all day. Better get started.” He took his call, and she forced herself not to look at Carillo as Dixon attempted to pull a nacho from the container, only to have it disintegrate into mush and fall onto his desk. The glare he threw their way before he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a plastic fork did not bode well for them, nor the hesitation after his first bite of what must surely have been ice-cold congealed beans and nacho cheese. Not surprisingly, he took several bites to make it look good, a sure sign that once the